Read the book: «Vanish in Plain Sight»

Praise for MARTA PERRY

“Marta Perry illuminates the differences between the Amish community and the larger society with an obvious care and respect for ways and beliefs…. She weaves these differences into the story with a deft hand, drawing the reader into a suspenseful, continually moving plot.”

—Fresh Fiction on Murder in Plain Sight

“Leah’s Choice, by Marta Perry, is a knowing and careful look into Amish culture and faith. A truly enjoyable reading experience.”

—Angela Hunt, New York Times bestselling author of Let Darkness Come

“Leah’s Choice takes us into the heart of Amish country and the Pennsylvania Dutch and shows us the struggles of the Amish community as the outside world continues to clash with the Plain ways. This is a story of grace and servitude as well as a story of difficult choices and heartbreaking realities. It touched my heart. I think the world of Amish fiction has found a new champion.”

—Lenora Worth, author of Code of Honor

“Marta Perry delivers a strong story of tension, fear and trepidation. Season of Secrets (4.5 stars) is an excellent mystery that’s certain to keep you in constant suspense. While love is a powerful entity in this story, danger is never too far behind.”

—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick

“In this beautifully told tale, Marta Perry writes with the gentle cadence and rich detail of someone who understands the Amish well. Leah’s Choice kept me reading long into the night.”

—Linda Goodnight, author of Finding Her Way Home

Vanish in Plain Sight
Marta Perry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Thank you for deciding to read this second book in my Amish suspense series. As a lifelong resident of rural Pennsylvania, I have always lived near the Plain People. My own family heritage is Pennsylvania Dutch, so it has been a pleasure and a challenge to draw on those experiences in my books.

It can be difficult for outsiders to understand the tight bonds of the Amish community, so that it is sometimes seen as secretive or unkind in its efforts to avoid conforming to the world. For many people, the extent of their knowledge about the Amish is derived from the movie Witness, but there is far more to be understood about a unique people trying to live as they believe God wishes.

In this story, Marisa Angelo is the outsider whose personal needs require that she penetrate Amish society to learn about her mother’s disappearance. She comes in with a great many preconceptions, most of which are put to the test as she tries to uncover the truth about her mother’s background and the events that led up to her disappearance. I’ve tried to present Amish belief and practices as honestly and respectfully as I can, and any errors are my own.

I hope you’ll let me know how you like my book, and I’d love to send you a signed bookmark and my free brochure of Pennsylvania Dutch recipes. You can email me at marta@martaperry.com, visit me on the web at www.martaperry.com or on Facebook at Marta Perry Books, or write to me at HQN Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Blessings,

Marta Perry

This story is dedicated to my husband, Brian, who always believes I can find another story to tell.

Acknowledgments

I’d like to express my thanks to all those whose expertise helped me in writing this book: to Erik Wesner, whose Amish America blog is enormously helpful; to Donald Kraybill and John Hostetler, whose books are the definitive resources on Amish life and beliefs; to the Plain People I have known and respected; and to my family, for giving me such a rich heritage on which to draw.

The righteousness of the blameless makes a straight way for them, but the wicked are brought down by their own wickedness.

—Proverbs 11:5

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

LINK MORGAN NARROWED his focus to the heavy sledgehammer and the satisfying thwack it made when it broke into the old paneling.

The paneling shattered beneath Link’s sledgehammer, its shoddiness a contrast to the solid double-plank construction of the rest of the old farmhouse. Setting the sledgehammer down, he pulled fragments loose with gloved hands, tossing them into a pile in front of the fireplace. The last bit of the section came free, revealing what lay behind it.

He stared, methodically wiping the sweat from his forehead. Shaking off the foreboding that gripped him, he reached into the wall and pulled out the object that lay there. A suitcase. Not empty, by the feel of it.

Carrying it to the makeshift worktable, he set down his find. An inexpensive suitcase, its fabric sides coated in dust and marred by stains. How long had it lain there, inside the wall of Uncle Allen’s house? More important, why was it there?

He snapped open the latch and swung back the lid. Women’s clothes, by the look of it—slacks, a skirt, several blouses. Beneath them something black. He picked it up, shook it out and recognized it. An Amish woman’s black apron. His stomach twisted, rebelling the way it had in Afghanistan when they were coming upon a perfect place for an ambush.

Taking out the apron revealed what lay under it: a white Amish prayer kapp. At the very bottom was a framed photograph. He picked up the picture, bad feelings growing. A woman and a young girl, looking at each other, faces lit with laughter and love. Mother and daughter, he’d guess from the similarities in the faces. The child looked to be about four or five.

He set the picture down gently and took a step away from the table. Something was wrong here. The pair in the photo wore typical, though a little outdated, clothing. So how did that square with the Amish clothing in the suitcase? The pressure that had driven him for months urged him to ignore this, to get on with his plans. Whatever had led to this suitcase being placed inside the wall of the old house his uncle had left him, it was no concern of his.

If he hadn’t opened the suitcase, maybe he could have bought that. But the contents raised too many questions. Too late now to take the easy way out. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed the Spring Township police.

Ten minutes later a police car pulled into the driveway. The occupants got out and headed for the back door, as country people always did, and he walked out to the back porch to meet them. Before he had a chance to speak, his brother Trey’s pickup drew to a stop behind the cruiser.

He’d called Trey right after he’d called the police, figuring he would want to know. After all, he was the one who’d been here for the past six years while Link was off at college and then in the army. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on this, but even if he couldn’t, Trey was the kind of person you turned to when there was trouble.

Besides, Trey knew everyone. Adam Byler, now the township police chief, had been friends with Link’s big brother since they were kids, running around together, usually trying to brush off Link, the bratty little brother tagging after them and getting into trouble.

“Hey, Link.” Adam pulled off sunglasses and started toward him, followed by another cop…Dick McCall, fiftyish, balding, with a paunch that strained his uniform shirt a bit more each year. Mac had been a township cop when Link had been soaping windows at ten.

“Sorry to call you out.” Link leaned against the porch post, hoping it didn’t look as if he needed its support. “It’s probably nothing, but I figured you’d want a look at this.”

“No problem. That’s what you pay taxes for, right?” Adam punched his shoulder lightly, the tap a hint of the power that lay behind it. Adam was as solid now as he’d been in high school, with not an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. “Let’s have a look.”

Trey joined them, giving Link the worried look he’d been using since Link got out of the military hospital and came home to recuperate.

“What’s up?” Trey’s voice was so much like Dad’s that it still shocked Link sometimes. “Adam said you found something inside the wall of the addition.”

He jerked a nod and headed inside. “See for yourself.”

The family room, stretching across the rear of the centuries-old farmhouse, seemed smaller with four men in it. They stood in an awkward circle around the opened suitcase.

Adam took the photo, setting it so they all could see. He glanced at Link. “You know who the woman is?”

Link shook his head, frowning at a vague memory that teased at the back of his mind. “The face seems a little familiar, but that’s all.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Trey said, sounding annoyed with himself that he didn’t have the answer.

Mac picked up the photo. “You three boys are too young to remember, that’s all. It’s Barbara Angelo, that’s who it is.”

“Angelo.” The frown on Adam’s stolid face deepened. “Wasn’t there a scandal or something about her?”

“Ran off from her husband and kid, that’s the way I heard it.” Mac looked gratified at their attention. “Russ Angelo, the husband, said she’d gone back to Indiana to her family, leaving the little girl with him and his mother. Barbara was Amish, see, left the church to marry him, but the marriage didn’t work out.” He shrugged. “It happens. Nobody questioned her leaving all that much, as I recall.”

“But if her suitcase is here…” Trey let that trail off.

No point in going on. Trey was thinking what they were all thinking. If Barbara Angelo had deserted her husband and small daughter, what was her suitcase doing in the wall of Allen Morgan’s house?

Adam closed the suitcase, scanning the sides with his eyes, not touching. “No ID tags. The kind of cheap bag you could pick up at any discount store.”

To Link’s eyes, the bag looked worn and battered, but maybe that was just the effect of being inside the paneling all these years. It was thick with dust, splattered with darker stains and a few nicks here and there.

Adam seemed to scan the stains more closely, then looked around the room. “Where was it?”

“Right here, next to the fireplace.” Link showed them, concentrating on not limping as he crossed the room. Maybe that sledgehammer had been a bit much. The army said he was as well as they could make him, after what had happened in Afghanistan.

Adam squatted down, studying the area as deliberately as he did everything. “Well, it’s not a crime to put a suitcase inside a wall. You two know when this work was done?”

“We were kids when Uncle Allen built the addition, that’s as close as I can come,” Trey said. “Mom would know exactly, though.”

Adam let his gaze move around the room. “I hate to say it, but I think we’d best make sure there’s nothing else inside that paneling.” He shot a glance at Link. “You mind?”

“Hey, I’m tearing it off anyway. I’ll take any help I can get. One thing’s sure—if there is anything, it has to be in this room. The rest of the house has solid double-plank walls. Not room even for a mouse.”

Let alone a human body, if that’s what they were talking about.

“Well, let’s have at it.” Trey picked up the sledgehammer before Link could reach it. He managed a grin at Link. “You sure this isn’t just a ploy to get us to do the work for you?”

“How else would I get you to do it? You’re still dead set against my selling the old place, aren’t you?” Link softened the question with an attempted smile, but he’d be glad if everyone would stop hovering over him.

“I just wish you’d stick around for a while, that’s all,” Trey said. He punctuated the words with a swing of the sledgehammer. “Seems like Morgans belong here in Lancaster County.”

Trey didn’t understand this drive of Link’s to leave—that was clear. Link wasn’t sure he understood it himself, but life had to be easier someplace where people weren’t worrying about him all the time. A buddy of his was keeping a job for him in California. He had a simple plan: renovate the house, sell it, move to California and forget what had happened to his team in Afghanistan and the career he’d once thought to have in the military.

With four of them working, the job didn’t take long. Soon all the old paneling lay in dusty stacks on the floor.

“Nothing.” Adam summed it up, brushing off his hands. “Maybe that’s what the whole thing amounts to. I guess there could be some innocent explanation for the woman’s suitcase being inside the wall of your uncle’s house.”

“Can you think of one?” Trey challenged. Link could hear the worry in his voice. He’d be thinking about how Mom would take this.

“Not off the top of my head,” Adam admitted. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Still, crime or no crime, I guess I’d better look into it.” He shrugged. “Sorry.”

That was aimed at both him and Trey, Link supposed. After all, it had been their uncle’s house. There would be talk, speculation about the possible relationship between Allen Morgan and the Angelo woman. Adam might want to keep it quiet, but they all knew how impossible that was in a place like Spring Township.

Link picked up the photograph, looking into the big brown eyes of the little girl, feeling again that sense of something wrong he’d had the first time he looked at her face, reminding him of those other children who saw death and destruction everyday. Stronger than that—it was a sense of empathy, as if the child meant something to him.

“One thing I do know,” he said. “This kid, or rather, the woman she is now—she deserves to know what happened to her mother.”

MARISA ANGELO FELT as if she hadn’t taken a breath since she left Baltimore. Cutting the car engine, she stared at the house in front of her. It stood on the fringe of the village of Springville, but still gave the illusion of privacy, hidden as it was behind a hedge of lilac bushes so high that nothing could be seen from the road.

Marisa got out slowly, pushing the strap of her bag onto her shoulder, unable to take her gaze from the house. It was probably like a hundred other farmhouses in this rural area of Pennsylvania; a two-story white frame with black wooden shutters on the windows. But instead of being surrounded by neat flowerbeds, it hid behind overgrown trees, its windows shielded by blinds so that it seemed to sleep.

A shiver slid through her. She was being morbid. She shouldn’t let this experience get to her. From the moment the police chief called her, after being unable to reach her father, she’d been focused on one thing only: get here. Find out what this place had to do with the disappearance of her mother that had left a hole in her heart nothing seemed to fill. She’d packed a bag, collected the materials she needed for her current set of illustrations, and set off.

She’d been five when her mother left, six when she and her father and grandmother moved to Baltimore. This area ought to be familiar to her, but she seemed to have only fragments of memories that didn’t amount to anything—an image of herself jumping rope on a sidewalk, the scary feeling of standing onstage in what must have been an elementary-school program.

They’d left, they’d never come back, she’d forgotten this place, even though her dreams were haunted by the need to know. To understand what happened.

Gradually, over the past few years, when every line of inquiry came up empty, she’d thought she was accepting the fact that she’d never know. But when the call came, it was as if she’d been waiting for it all her life.

She closed the car door and walked toward the house. Blank and shuttered, it looked deserted, but someone must be here. The police chief had said the owner was renovating the place. Seeming to understand her need to see for herself, Chief Byler had agreed to meet her here.

She had one foot on the porch step when she heard the noise—a steady series of thuds coming from the rear of the building. Maybe the renovator was still at work.

The yard behind the house proved just as secluded as the front. A stand of pines pressed close, reaching over a fieldstone wall to threaten a garage and a couple of outbuildings that tilted into each other in a dispirited manner. The source of the noise was instantly obvious.

The man, in jeans and a T-shirt, worked steadily, oblivious to her presence. Pick up a short log, set it on a stump, split it with an axe, toss it aside. His movements were smooth, efficient and almost angry in their intensity.

From the top of the stone wall, a large black cat watched with the casual indifference of its kind. He put up a lazy paw to swipe his face, his eyes never leaving the figure.

The contrast between the lean ferocity of the man and the lazy feline grace of the cat had her fingers itching. She pulled the ever-present pad and pencil from her bag, intent on capturing the scene in quick strokes. With a few changes, this might fit into the children’s book she was illustrating. Even if it didn’t, she couldn’t resist.

The image was nearly complete when the man clutched his side with a grunt, dropping the axe. The cat vanished over the wall. She must have made some move, because the man spun and strode toward her, transferring that angry intensity from the logs to her.

“What are you doing?” He reached her, grabbing the pad from her hand and giving the drawing an angry glance. “What right do you have invading my privacy? Well?”

Panic clutched her throat at the angry voice. She forced it back, a millimeter at a time. She would not give in to it.

“I’m sorry.” She found her voice. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m afraid I couldn’t resist the contrast between your work and your cat’s laziness.” She tried for a smile that felt stiff on her lips.

“Not my cat.” He handed the pad back to her and made a visible effort to contain himself, strong mouth firming, lashes shielding piercing green eyes for an instant. He yanked a handkerchief from his jeans pocket and wiped away the perspiration that beaded his forehead in spite of the coolness of the October day. He ran the cloth back over short dark brown hair and along his neck. “Are you looking for directions, Ms…?”

“Angelo. Marisa Angelo,” she said, and saw his face change when he heard the name. This must be the man who’d found the suitcase, then, the man who’d inherited the house from an uncle, according to the police chief.

“Sorry.” His voice went softer, rougher. “I didn’t realize you were coming here. The person you want is Adam Byler, the township police chief. If you head back down the road—”

“I’ve already talked to him. He’s meeting me here. Didn’t he let you know?” She couldn’t let him send her away, not when the only clue she’d ever had to her mother’s disappearance had been found here.

“No.” The word was so blunt that for a moment she thought he’d still send her packing. Then he managed a smile that gentled the harsh lines of his face. “I’ve been outside most of the day. Not paying any attention to the phone. I’m Link Morgan, by the way. Sorry to meet you under such circumstances.”

The words were conventional. Could Link Morgan begin to understand what this meant to her? Or was her arrival just an unwelcome interruption to his work?

“Chief Byler said that you found my mother’s suitcase while you were renovating the house?” She made it a question, since he didn’t seem very forthcoming.

“Right.” His jaw tightened. “I guess you want to see where?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

He sent a harassed glance toward the lane, as if willing the police car to appear. “Fine.” He brushed his hands on his jeans. “I guess I’d better get washed up.”

She followed him to the back door. His gait was ever-so-slightly uneven, reminding her of how he’d ended his woodcutting. “Are you all right?”

“What do you mean?” He turned on her, his lean, strong-featured face forbidding.

“I just… You looked as if you’d hurt yourself when you were cutting wood.”

“I’m fine. Just got a stitch in my side.” He held the door for her. “This leads into the addition to the house, where I’ve been working.”

She went up the two steps into the house, steeling herself. No matter how much this affected her, she didn’t want to show her pain in front of this stranger.

But it was just a room—long, running across the width of the farmhouse, with a fieldstone fireplace in the middle of the back wall. The walls were bare to the studs, with broken paneling stacked on the floor.

“I’ll get washed up. Adam will probably be here by then.” He disappeared into a room that must be a kitchen, and she heard the sound of running water.

She set her bag on a rough worktable and looked around. There was nothing to see. Just a virtually empty room, a shell waiting for renovation. If Link Morgan hadn’t decided to tear off the old paneling, he wouldn’t have found the suitcase. She’d have gone on for maybe the rest of her life knowing nothing more than that her mother had abandoned her.

Morgan came back in, pulling a flannel shirt on over his T-shirt. He was thin, she realized, not just lean. Strongly muscled but underweight, as if he’d been sick. Maybe her question about being hurt hadn’t been too tactful.

“It was there, next to the fireplace.” He indicated the spot with a nod. “When I saw what was inside—well, I had to call the police.”

Delaying his renovation, obviously. “I guess you’re eager to get the work done so you can enjoy your house.”

He shook his head sharply. “I’m renovating it to sell. I want to get it finished and put it on the market before winter.”

His priorities were clear, it seemed.

But so were hers. She’d governed her life by the knowledge that her mother hadn’t loved her enough to stay with her. Now she had a hint, the tiniest thread, which seemed to say that might not be true. No matter who it inconvenienced, she wouldn’t stop pulling at that thread until she knew the truth.

LINK COULDN’T HELP but compare the woman in front of him with the child in the photograph who’d taken such a hold on his emotions. The adult Marisa had a slender, delicate build, like the little girl. Her brown hair, a bit darker than the shade in the picture, reached her shoulders, curling slightly.

The eyes in her oval face were those of the child in the picture—golden brown, with a touch of vulnerability that seared him. He couldn’t let anyone lean on him, especially not this vulnerable stranger with the familiar eyes.

“Is something wrong?” She brushed her hair back, flushing slightly. “A smudge on my face?”

“No.” It was his turn to feel embarrassed. “You just… I guess I was comparing you with the photo in the suitcase.”

“Photo?” She was clearly at sea.

“Adam didn’t tell you? There was a picture of your mother and you in the suitcase. That’s how we were able to identify the owner so quickly. I’m surprised Adam didn’t mention it.”

“Maybe he did. I guess I found the news all a bit hard to take in.”

“You must have dropped everything to get here so quickly.” Was it odd, her showing up so fast? He wasn’t sure.

“Once I heard, I couldn’t think of anything else.” She rubbed her arms, as if she felt a chill. “My work is freelance, so I just packed it up and brought it. I couldn’t not come, once I heard.”

He considered how that must have felt. “That almost sounds as if you were expecting something of the kind.”

“Of course I wasn’t.”

There was a hint of something held back in her tone that bothered him.

No getting involved. Stay out of it. But he had to ask. “Did your mother know my uncle?”

“I have no idea.” The brown eyes flashed. She clearly resented the implication.

Had he been implying anything? He just wanted to understand this, so he could put it behind him.

Marisa turned away, seeming to glance around the room almost at random, as if searching for something to take them away from an awkward place. “It looks as if you’re making good progress in here.”

“I wasn’t, but once the police got into the act, the paneling came down pretty fast.” Almost instantly he regretted the careless words, because she paled, obviously understanding why the police had gotten involved.

“We didn’t find anything.”

He rushed the words. It didn’t help. His hands curled into fists. The whole situation angered him. Talking to this woman was like walking through a minefield, where any step could end up maiming someone.

Relief flooded through him at the sound of a car. “That’ll be Adam.” He went quickly to the door.

Adam got out of the police car, alone this time, and pulled out the suitcase. So, he was going to show it to her. Well, Marisa had probably as much right to it as anyone.

“Adam.” He could only hope the relief didn’t show in his voice. “Ms. Angelo, this is Adam Byler.” He made introductions as Adam walked in. “Adam, Marisa Angelo. But I guess you’ve spoken on the phone.”

Adam nodded, shaking hands gravely before swinging the suitcase onto the worktable where it had lain the previous day. Link was glad to retreat into the background while Adam went over the circumstances of finding the case and identifying her mother from the photograph.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan told me about it.” Marisa reached toward the case, her hands hesitant. “May I see?”

“Of course. We’ve already run a few tests on it, just to be on the safe side.” Adam took a step back, as if giving her space.

Marisa opened the case. The photograph now lay on top, faceup, so that it was the first thing she saw. Link could hear the way her breath choked at the sight. His throat tightened in response.

She picked up the photograph, holding it for a long moment, her fingers caressing the pictured faces. Then she cradled it against her chest.

“This is mine.” She looked at Adam, as if expecting an argument.

“I suppose it is.” His voice was gentle. “Or maybe more accurately your father’s, but we haven’t been able to reach him.”

He knew Adam well. Maybe that was how he detected the hint of suspicion underlying the words.

Marisa didn’t seem to. “Dad won’t mind if I have the picture. I’m sorry you weren’t able to reach him, but since he retired, he takes off in that RV of his at a moment’s notice.”

“Doesn’t he have a cell phone?” Adam asked the question lightly, as if intent on not alarming her.

“He does, but half the time he doesn’t check it from one week to the next.” She didn’t seem to find that odd, which argued that father and daughter weren’t very close. “I’ve left a message for him to call me, and I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from him.”

“That’ll be fine.” Adam glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late, and I know this is a lot to take in. If you don’t mind staying over in the area tonight, maybe we can meet in my office tomorrow to talk things over.”

She looked at him, blinking a little. “Tonight? I’ll be here longer than that.”

Adam seemed taken aback. “That’s really not necessary, you know. We’ll continue to look into the situation, and we’ll let you know if and when we learn anything. I’m sure you want to get back to your own life.”

In other words, Adam didn’t want her here, dogging his every step. Link couldn’t agree more.

Marisa’s shoulders stiffened. She looked very deliberately from him to Adam. “I can see why you feel that way, but I have no intention of going anywhere. I intend to stay in Springville until I know why my mother’s suitcase was inside the wall of this house.”

CHAPTER TWO

MARISA COULD SEE HOW unwelcome that announcement was to both men. With her unfortunate knack for empathy, she could easily put herself in their places.

The police chief was simplest to figure. He clearly wanted a free hand with his investigation, and he didn’t want to tell her anything he didn’t have to. Not that he suspected her—he could hardly believe that a five-year-old child would be involved in her mother’s disappearance.

But her father was another matter. Didn’t the police automatically suspect the spouse when a woman disappeared?

Or died. She forced herself to finish that thought.

“Ms. Angelo, I hate to see you do that.” The police chief sounded as harassed at the thought of her staying as she expected him to. “You’ll just be kicking your heels around here to no purpose. It’s hardly likely that we can find anything else out about what happened after all these years.”

“You found the suitcase,” she pointed out.

“Link did.” Chief Byler shot a look at the other man. “If he hadn’t been renovating the house, we wouldn’t have known anything about it.”

“But you have to investigate.” A thought struck her with the force of a blow. “You must have investigated then. Well, I mean not you personally.” He was far too young for that, probably not much more than in his early thirties. “But the police must have.”

She’d never known. She could only wonder at herself. A child accepted what she was told by the authority figures in her life, of course. But later, when she’d wanted to understand, it hadn’t occurred to her to ask her father what the police had thought.

“True, they did.” Adam Byler leaned against the rough table, seeming to resign himself to the questions. “I’ve looked into the reports, talked to officers who were working then.”

“And what did they say?” Was she going to have to drag information from the man? Ordinarily she probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to confront him, but these weren’t ordinary circumstances.

She couldn’t read anything in his square, impassive face. She suspected he was trying to decide what and how much to tell her.

As for Link Morgan—well, he’d backed away, as if trying to disassociate himself from the whole business. He probably regretted that he hadn’t thrown the suitcase on the trash heap without opening it.

“People noticed that your mother wasn’t around any longer,” Byler said. “Your father said she’d left him. That she hadn’t been able to go on living English and she’d gone back to her people in Indiana. For the most part, the police accepted that.”

Byler’s lips clamped shut on the words. Was the implication that he wouldn’t have?

“You know that your mother was Amish?” Link Morgan asked the question with a kind of reluctant concern in his voice.

She nodded. That she did know, but only because she’d pried it out of her grandmother, who was easier to talk to than her father. “I know. And my father said she’d gone back to her family because that was what he thought she’d done.”

A shiver skittered along her nerves. She believed that. She had to.

“My grandmother said my mother had talked about going back to her family,” she went on. “Grandma said my mother found it hard to give up her people and her faith the way she had.”

But how could she leave me behind? The child who lived inside her asked the question she couldn’t.

“You might want to see what else is in the suitcase,” Link suggested.

She shot a look at him. That fine-drawn face, with the skin taut against the bones—she still had the urge to draw it every time she looked at him. What made him look that way? Illness? Grief? Guilt?

Slowly she lifted out folded clothing. Her fingers hesitated when they touched the black garment. Then she lifted it, shook it out.

“It’s the kind of apron an Amish woman wears. And there’s the prayer covering they always have on their heads.” He nodded toward the object in the bottom of the case, not moving.

She picked it up, her fingers tingling a little. White organdy, a kind of small hat with long strings. She’d seen pictures of Amish women, looking almost like nuns in their dark dresses and identical hair styles, with the white covering on their heads. She’d taken a book out of the school library, she remembered, and hidden it under the mattress so Daddy wouldn’t see.

“That would seem to confirm that she was planning to leave,” Chief Byler said. “As to how that suitcase ended up here, and where she went—we’re as much in the dark as we were twenty-three years ago.”

For her father’s sake, she had to ask the question. “Is this a criminal investigation?”

Byler’s expression didn’t change, but Link Morgan’s mouth tightened, as if in pain.

“Not at this time,” Byler said. “For all we know, your mother did disappear back into an Amish community somewhere. That’s possible, even in this age of instant communication. If so, and if she doesn’t want to be found, the Amish would never give her up.”

“I know.” Her thoughts flickered to her own futile effort to find out something from her mother’s relatives in Indiana. “So, if it’s not a criminal investigation, will you do anything?” She didn’t mean that to sound critical, but she had to understand.

“We’ll pursue the leads we have.” That sounded final, and the police chief closed the suitcase and lifted it from the table. “If you’re intent on staying, please let my office know how to reach you. We’ll contact you if we find anything.”

She nodded, watching him walk to the door. He hadn’t sounded particularly hopeful.

He turned at the door, hand on the screen. “Don’t forget, Ms. Angelo. Let us know as soon as you hear from your father. We’d like to speak with him.” He didn’t wait for a response.

Her stomach tightened in apprehension as she watched him walk toward the patrol car. The fact that the police would suspect her father hadn’t occurred to her when she’d rushed off in response to the phone call.

“He thinks my father had something to do with this, doesn’t he?” The moment she asked the question, she regretted it. Link obviously didn’t want to be involved in her troubles, and she certainly had no reason to confide in him.

“Adam is a fair-minded person. He wouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

“But the husband is always a suspect. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

“I’m not thinking anything.” His tone was cool and dismissive. “I’m sorry for your—” he hesitated, and she suspected he’d been about to say her loss “—your situation, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

“You found the suitcase. It’s your uncle’s house. You have a responsibility—”

“I don’t have any responsibility at all.” The words came quick and angry. “There’s nothing I can do.”

He’d walk away, she thought, except that it was his house, which meant she was the one who had to walk away. Marisa took a deep breath and realized she was trembling. Confrontation definitely wasn’t her strong suit.

“I see.” She managed to keep her voice calm. “Thank you for your trouble.”

She turned and walked to the door. She’d come here looking for answers, but it seemed all she’d found were more questions.

LINK SCOWLED AT THE high-school photos that still adorned the wall of the room that had been his as a kid and yanked open a drawer to find a clean shirt. Mom wouldn’t hear of his being on his own when they’d finally released him from the military hospital, of course, and he’d been too weak to argue the point. But looking at the remnants of the life he used to live wasn’t doing a thing for his morale.

Well, it would soon be over, and he’d move on. This business with the suitcase could have been worse. Now it was in Adam’s capable hands, and Marisa Angelo’s troubles were Adam’s concern.

He’d been telling himself that all afternoon. So why did he still feel like such a loser? He wasn’t responsible for the woman.

Trouble was, he’d always been a sucker for vulnerable brown eyes.

He pushed away the image of that heart-shaped face. Marisa wouldn’t stick this out, anyway. She’d get tired of waiting around for news that didn’t come and go back to wherever she’d come from—Baltimore, Adam had said.

Adam didn’t want the woman here. But he did want to see her father. Marisa had been right about one thing. The police did always suspect the husband when a woman disappeared.

Funny that the cops hadn’t looked into it more thoroughly at the time. He’d have thought—

No, he wasn’t going to obsess about Marisa Angelo.

He started down the stairs, running his hand along the railing that four or five generations of Morgans had touched. He never used to spare a thought for things like that. Trey was the oldest son—he’d always figured Trey was responsible for carrying on the family traditions.

But somehow the tour of duty in Afghanistan had made Link look at things differently, like this old house and the countryside that surrounded it. Morgan land, just like probably half of Spring Township was Morgan land.

We have a duty to the land, Grandpa used to say. And to the people who live here.

A stickler for duty, the old man had been, accepting no excuses for not doing what you should. Like dealing with Marisa Angelo’s problem. And Uncle Allen’s possible involvement.

But he wasn’t going to see Marisa Angelo again.

Voices came from the living room. Mom had said that Jessica Langdon, Trey’s fiancée, was coming for dinner tonight, so apparently they were gathering there. He paused for a moment and then headed toward the archway.

Not that he didn’t like Jessica—she was a smart city attorney who’d recently gone into partnership with an old friend of his father’s. But tonight he wasn’t in the mood to be sociable. Maybe he could—

He reached the living room and stopped. Jessica and Trey were there all right, talking to Mom, who was poised like a butterfly in flight, waving a tray of appetizers while she talked to the woman who sat in the Queen Anne armchair. Marisa Angelo.

“Link, there you are.” His mother spun with one of her quick moves, the sleeves of her filmy top fluttering and the tray waving.

“Here I am,” he agreed, taking the tray from her. “And these cheese puffs are about to be on the floor.”

“Nonsense. I had a firm grip on them.” She patted his cheek as if he were about four. “Now, you’ve already met Marisa, haven’t you? I stopped by Adam’s office while I was in town to see what he’d found out about that suitcase, and Marisa was there. So I just brought her along home for supper so we could all talk it over.” Mom beamed, obviously pleased with her solution.

He had to suppress a groan. Geneva Morgan was known far and wide for her warm hospitality and her habit of adopting any stray that crossed her path, but he wished for once she’d restrained herself.

He nodded to Marisa, trying to look as if he wasn’t aghast to find her in his mother’s living room. “Marisa. I didn’t realize you were headed back to the police station after you left my place.”

Her eyes said it wasn’t any of his business where she went. “I thought of a few more things I wanted to say to Chief Byler.”

Trey must have thought that sounded ominous, because he frowned. “Adam Byler’s a good man. If there’s anything to find, I’m sure he’ll find it.”

That was not exactly what worried Marisa about him, Link suspected.

“Yes, he…he seems very capable.” Marisa’s expression suggested that she didn’t want to discuss it, and probably also that she was wondering what had induced her to accept Mom’s invitation.

Plenty of people had occasion to wonder how Geneva Morgan became entangled in their affairs. Trey had had his hands full since Dad’s death. Their mother never saw a problem that she didn’t consider it her duty to resolve.

“You must have been so shocked at Adam’s call.” His mother leaned over to pat Marisa’s hand. “Poor child. And with your father out of touch, it all falls on you.”

Marisa stiffened. Mom wouldn’t understand that the subject of her father’s absence was a touchy one, of course. His mind scrambled for something to say that would divert the conversation, but he couldn’t come up with a thing.

“I understand you’ll be staying around for a few days.” Jessica broke what was becoming an uncomfortable silence. “It’s fortunate you were able to take time off work.”

Marisa turned to her gratefully, maybe glad to see someone who wasn’t a Morgan. “That wasn’t an issue. I’m a freelance illustrator, and as long as I turn projects in on time, it doesn’t matter where I do them.”

“Really? That’s fascinating. I don’t think I ever met an illustrator before. What are you working on?” Jessica leaned forward, her interest sounding genuine.

“Right now I’m doing illustrations for a children’s book. The story is set in a rural area, as a matter of fact, so these surroundings are perfect.”

The first smile Link had seen from her curved Marisa’s lips and lit her eyes. With the stress momentarily wiped from her face, she seemed to glow with enthusiasm for her work, drawing him closer. Too bad she couldn’t look like that all the time. He hadn’t given much of a thought to women since his injury, but now he felt that flicker of interest that was the first step toward attraction.

“But about this suitcase.” Mom perched on the edge of a chair, clearly not distracted. “Have you any idea how it got there? Did your father ever mention that it was missing?”

“I don’t think so.” Marisa’s lips tightened again. “Not to me, anyway. I was just five when my mother left.” She hesitated. “If she did leave.”

Trey’s hand clenched. He was probably thinking, as Link was, about the implications of Uncle Allen being involved in the woman’s disappearance. Mom had had enough grief in her life with Dad’s death. She shouldn’t have to face any more.

“Surely the fact that the suitcase was packed indicates that she at least planned to leave,” Trey said.

“That’s true, but why—?”

Mom’s question was interrupted by a movement in the archway. Katie Zeller, one of several Amish teens who helped Mom around the house, stood there, probably waiting patiently for a break in the conversation.

Mom turned. “Oh, Katie, I’m sorry. Is everything ready?”

Katie nodded. “Ja. Did you want me to dish up already?”

“Please. I’ll come and help you.” Mom rose, waving toward the dining room. “The rest of you find seats. We’ll get the food on right away. I’m sure Marisa is starved, and here we’ve been keeping her talking instead of feeding her.”

“I’m not…” Marisa began, and let the word trail off when Mom vanished toward the kitchen.

“Pretend you’re hungry,” Trey advised, taking Jessica’s hand as they moved into the dining room. “Our mother is only happy when she’s feeding people.”

“Well, now, I might resent that if it weren’t true.” Mom and her helper carried steaming bowls and platters to the table. “Katie and I made chicken pot pie for supper. I thought Marisa ought to sample some traditional Pennsylvania Dutch food while she’s here.”

Link held Marisa’s chair while she sat down. Manners might be a vanishing art some places, but not in his mother’s house. Marisa, he noticed, was staring at Katie, something almost tragic in her eyes.

Thinking about that Amish apron and kapp in her mother’s suitcase? Both looked identical to the ones Katie wore at the moment. He sat down next to Marisa, turning that over in his mind.

By the time the food platters had circled the table, Marisa had regained her poise, as far as he could tell.

His mother glanced around the table, blue eyes sparkling. “This is nice, having a full table again. And you know, I think I can answer at least one of the questions that’s perplexing Marisa.”

Marisa’s fingers tightened on her fork. “What question is that?”

“How the suitcase came to be in Allen’s house, of course.”

Link exchanged glances with Trey. What was their mother up to now?

“How would you be able to explain that?” He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“It’s simple, really. I thought of it last night, but then I never had a chance to tell you because you left so early this morning, Link.”

“Tell me what?” Dealing with his mother required more patience than he possessed at the moment, and Marisa’s tension seemed to vibrate through the space between them.

“Why, that Barbara Angelo was your uncle Allen’s housekeeper, of course.”

MARISA FOUND THAT Link’s hand was in her line of vision, lying on the white tablecloth next to hers. Hers was clenched around a fork. His had tightened into so hard a fist that the tendons stood out on the back of it.

Did that mean he was as shocked at Geneva’s revelation as she was? Or did it mean that he hated the fact that it had come out?

“What are you talking about, Mom?” Across the table from her, Trey had found his voice.

Marisa studied him. A year or two older than Link, maybe, but his face, while serious, didn’t carry those lines of tension which marked Link. At the moment Trey was staring at his mother in what seemed honest surprise.

“About Marisa’s mother, Barbara Angelo. She worked for your uncle for a while, taking care of the house for him. Although why he needed a housekeeper, I never understood. There he was all by himself, practically a hermit. You’d think he could easily have done for himself…”

“Give it a rest, Mom.” Trey seemed to relax during his mother’s wanderings. Maybe he was used to the track her thoughts took. “We all know you didn’t like Dad’s brother.”

Geneva straightened, her shoulders back. “Trey, that is absolutely not true. I didn’t dislike your uncle. I just said he didn’t need a housekeeper. He could easily have taken care of things himself. Why, your father—”

“Dad was a paragon,” Trey said, smiling a little. “But you know perfectly well he never washed a dish in his life. You wouldn’t let him.”

“You always thought Uncle Allen was lazy,” Link said. “Typical younger son, taking life easy while his older brother did all the work.”

That sounded like a teasing comment. Certainly the others took it that way, joining in kidding the older woman. But Marisa had heard an undercurrent in Link’s voice that made her wonder. Was that how they’d seen Allen Morgan? Or was Link feeling guilty over something he had or hadn’t done?

She expected Geneva to come back to the subject of her mother working as Allen Morgan’s housekeeper, but that didn’t happen. At first she thought Geneva didn’t care to talk about it, but as Marisa watched them, she realized that Trey and Link were steering the conversation away from that revelation.

They were protective of Geneva. Even Jessica joined in, keeping the talk light as they ate their way through the delectable chicken pot pie and a sweet and nutty squash casserole. At least, Marisa tried to eat. She ought to be hungry, but her stomach seemed tied in a permanent knot since she’d come to this place.

How normal was their protectiveness? She couldn’t really compare them with her family. With Daddy away so much working, family had usually consisted of just her and her grandmother.

Finally everyone was finished, and Geneva suggested a move back into the living room for dessert and coffee. Jessica sat down next to Marisa, while Geneva disappeared into the kitchen and the two men halted in front of the fireplace, heads down in a low-voiced conversation.

“Don’t mind them,” Jessica said, nodding toward the two men. “I try to tell Trey he shouldn’t be so protective of his mother, but everyone does it.” She smiled. “I even find myself doing it sometimes, and the truth is that she’s probably wiser than all of us put together, despite that scatterbrained façade.”

“Is it an act?” She couldn’t help voicing her doubts.

Jessica seemed to consider. “Not entirely. I think she has the sort of mind which jumps ahead of logic, very often arriving at the right answer without apparent effort. Of course, sometimes she’s completely wrong, too.”

“I’m not sure why she thought everything would be cleared up by knowing that my mother worked for Allen Morgan. If anything, it makes the whole thing more…” She hesitated. She’d been going to say suspicious, but that was hardly the thing to say to Trey’s fiancée. “…confusing, I suppose.”

Jessica nodded. “You’ve never heard anything from your mother in all these years?”

“No.” The word had an empty sound.

“I’m sorry.” Jessica touched her hand lightly. “My mother died when I was quite young. It’s so hard.”

She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. There was a lump in her throat to go with the knot in her stomach.

Ridiculous. She was just exhausted, that was all. Getting that call, loading the car, rushing up to Lancaster County, and then all the turmoil of the day—no wonder she felt emotional. She needed a good night’s sleep far more than she needed coffee and dessert.

She also needed to talk with Geneva at some point, to see what she actually remembered about her mother’s employment by Allen Morgan. But that conversation could wait until she could catch the woman alone, without her protective sons.

Geneva came back in the room with a coffee tray, followed by the Amish teenager with another tray of dessert plates. Marisa found her gaze caught by the girl. Would her mother have looked like that, with the solid-color dress, the dark apron, the hair pulled back into a bun and covered by the white net cap? Would she have had those rosy cheeks, that shy manner? Was that what she’d run away to?

Marisa stood abruptly and then bent to retrieve her handbag from the side of the chair.

“This has been very kind of you, Mrs. Morgan, but I’m so tired I’m going to have to call it a night.”

“Please, call me Geneva, remember? And you can’t go without dessert. Just a little piece.” She sounded as if she were coaxing a toddler to eat her peas.

“I couldn’t eat another bite, really. Thank you, Geneva. It was nice to meet all of you.”

“But where are you going to stay?” Geneva put the tray on a drop-leaf table and caught her hand. “We’d be so happy to have you stay here with us. The guest room is always ready. You don’t want to go off looking for a motel at this time of night.”

“I already have a reservation,” she said quickly. “I’m staying at the Plain and Fancy Bed and Breakfast. I’m sure I’ll be fine there.”

“You’ll be fine once you find it.” Link rose from the chair by the fireplace, stretching as if he had to work out some kinks. “I’ll lead you there.”

“I’m sure I can find it—”

“No, no, Link is right. It’s impossible to read those street signs after dark, and I’ll never forgive myself if you have an accident.” Geneva patted her hand. “Just follow Link, and he’ll lead you right to the place. Rhoda Miller will make you very comfortable if you’re sure you won’t stay with us.”

It sounded as if accepting Link’s guidance was the only way she was going to get out of here quickly. “Thank you again.”

Link was already standing in the archway. She went quickly to join him and followed him through the center hallway and out the front door.

Lights came on as soon as they stepped outside, revealing a sweep of gravel on which several cars were parked. Beyond that, the circle of light quickly petered out. The Morgan house was well out into the country, probably six or seven miles from Springville. Nothing out here but dark grass, dark trees and a chilly wind. She pulled her jacket around her.

“Cold?” Link said, walking beside her to her car.

“I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”

He stood next to her while she unlocked the door and opened it. She slid in. His hand was on the door, but he didn’t close it immediately.

“What my mother said about my uncle—I wouldn’t pin too much on that, if I were you.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.” She looked at him, and his face was all craggy lines and shadows in the dim light.

He seemed to shift, as if tensing for an argument. “The fact that your mother worked for my uncle doesn’t lead anywhere. I don’t know what you expect to find, but my mother can’t help you.”

“I just want—”

He stepped away. “I’ll pull my car around, and you can follow me. Just remember what I said. Don’t badger my mother about this.” He stalked off, and the darkness swallowed him up.